Sympathy for the Devil
by Lyowyn
Summary: I thought I'd try my hand at drabbling, if I can use that as a verb. This will be HouseWilson slash,and sort of sucsessional. Mostly just a lot of back and forth dialog, but I think they're funny.
1. Play the Game

Author's Note: At first I was just going to try a House/Wilson story, but I decided to try something different for a change. There will eventually be more of these. This one's kind of short, just to feel it out.

Disclaimer: I do not own House MD or related characters, but then you already knew that. Overall title is from the Rolling Stones; you know as the great philosopher Jagger once said… The title for the installment comes from another band you might have heard of: Queen. I don't care what anyone says; anybody who doesn't like Queen is just homophobic. Freddy Mercury is the greatest front man of all time.

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Sympathy for the Devil

Installment One

Play the Game

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House barged into Wilson's office through the balcony door.

"I'm sorry," he said with no preamble.

Wilson looked up. "What for?"

"No idea." He settled himself in one of Wilson's chairs and hooked his cane over the top of Wilson's desk. "But you've been looking at me like I'm some bad dog that's just piddled on the carpet, so whatever I've done; I'm sorry."

"You don't know what I'm mad about?"

"Nope and I don't care. I'd rather not know, actually. That way, if it's something stupid you don't have to be mad at me for being mad at you for being mad at me about something silly."

Wilson blinked.

"So anyway I apologized. You can stop looking at me like that."

"You do realize that wasn't an actual apology."

"Sure it was, I said 'I'm sorry' and everything."

"You can't apologize for things at random anytime I seem upset and expect instant forgiveness unless you actually know what you're apologizing for," Wilson said.

But it was no use arguing; House was already out the door. After all, he knew he was forgiven.


	2. Swagger

Author's Note: I shamelessly stole this scene from Pete and Steve, but well there you have it. No one reviewed the first chapter of this, but I'm just going to assume that was because it was only 300 words.

Disclaimer: I don't own House MD, the title for this fic is a Rolling Stones song, and the chapter title I stole from Flogging Molly

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Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Two

Swagger

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Wilson watched as House traversed the parking lot, a self –satisfied smirk on his face. Earlier that day Dr. House had diagnosed a man, exhibiting the completely wrong symptoms, with a very rare infection after giving him no more than a cursory glance, much to the ire of every one else, except maybe the patient. House's team had administered the proper treatment and the patient left the same day. That sort of thing made Wilson wonder why he'd ever decided to be an oncologist; it must be so much easier to have patients that were curable rather than just dying.

House pulled the door open and awkwardly levered himself into the car with his backpack in one hand and his cane in the other.

"How did you do it," Wilson asked him. "You have to tell me. I'm your friend."

"I can do that because I am totally, totally bitchrod," House says. "I learned that lovely word from one of my pothead patients in the clinic today, who kindly applied it to me. He thinks I am God. He might not feel the same way when he comes back in next week for the results from his drug test."

"Yeah, well you don't need anyone playing in to your ego anyway. Don't change the subject."

"How do you think I did it?"

Wilson pulled his car out of the lot. "I think you used your uncanny talent for observation to extrapolate some highly unlikely answer, and then you got lucky like you always do."

"And do you know why that is?"

"Because you're bitchrod?"

"Totally bitchrod."


	3. Darts of Pleasure

Disclaimer: I do not own House MD. The chapter title is from Franz Ferdinand (they're great give them a listen.)

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Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Three

Darts of Pleasure

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"My god, Jimmy!"

Wilson looked up from his omelet.

"I feel like I've spent the last two days being tortured in some kinky Turkish prison. No wonder all of your wives are so glad to be rid of you."

House eased himself into the chair across from Wilson, wincing. House kind of looked like he'd spent the last two days being tortured in a kinky Turkish prison.

"Maybe you should take a shower," Wilson ventured. "You'll feel better."

"You did this to me," House said, taking Wilson's omelet. "You need to take responsibility."

Wilson handed over his fork and napkin. "If you can't take it anymore, old man, maybe you shouldn't beg."

House scowled at him and took a bite of the omelet, pulling a face. "What's in this?"

Wilson shrugged, "Eggs, ham, cayenne."

House made another face, but kept eating. "Yeah, well, next time you get to be the bottom; I don't care how many times you've been married."


	4. Rebel Rebel

Author's Note: I actually have a longer one of these in progress, but this one just floated into my head, so I figured, what the hell.

Disclaimer: Don't own House MD, chapter title is a David Bowie song.

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Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Four

Rebel Rebel

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"House! Stop that; it tickles."

"And yet, I don't hear that characteristic schoolgirl giggle."

"Just put the brush down and watch the movie."

"Don't you want your toenails to be cotton candy pink?"

"Not particularly, no."

"But you picked this one out," House whined, shaking the tiny bottle of lacquer to illustrate his point. "I wanted the sparkly Mary Kate and Ashley one."

"The pink one smells like cotton candy; it's better."

"Oh, so that's what this is about." House shook a finger knowledgably at Wilson. "This is all just a cunning attempt to get me to smell your feet."

"I, wait, what?" Wilson sat up abruptly, pulling his feet out of House's lap, and leaving a streak of pink nail polish on his arm.

"See, you're upset; that means it's true. You could have just told me that you have a foot fetish you know."

"What? I do not have a foot fetish!"

"All those fancy French shoes, and the loud toenails, I guess I should have suspected something."

"What do my toenails have to do with," Wilson shook his head. "I do not have a foot fetish."

"Relax Jimmy; I said it was okay. A little kinky, I'll admit, but I'm willing to try anything once."

Wilson sighed.


	5. Bad Day

Author's Note: This is rather more of a rant then a drabble. I might make into a one-shot fic of its own later, but for now I thought I'd add it on here. I know a couple people have an alert on this fic. I'm sorry this has been such a long time coming.

Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or related character. Bad Day is a song by Daniel Powter.

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Sympathy For The Devil

Chapter Five

Bad Day

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House awoke to the blaring of his alarm clock. He fumbled the switch off, not bothering to check the time, and rolled over onto his back. He cracked one sleep-caked eye open and glared at the other side of the bed, but it was empty.

Wilson had already left for work without waking house, which meant that he hadn't gotten ready for work here, which meant that he'd gotten ready for work someplace else, which meant that something was up. But, as it was 7:20 am, House couldn't be bothered finding out what; at least not until he ingested some caffeine. He rolled back onto his side, and reached down for his cane, but it wasn't in its usual place, nor was it hooked over the nightstand or the bedpost where Wilson sometimes put it.

Shit! Wilson had all but carried him to the bedroom last night. They'd both had to work late, and been more than eager to get right down to business the moment they'd gotten home. House's cane lay forgotten somewhere in the general vicinity of the door. Wilson could have at least put his cane by the bed before he left; he must have passed it on his way out the door.

House looked longingly at the telephone by the bed. His leg hurt and he was starting to get a migraine; he would give almost anything to call in sick right now. But he had clinic duty this morning, ad he'd already blown it off twice this week, and even that was pushing his luck. If he did it again Cuddy would have his balls.

He rubbed at his thigh with his knuckles and groaned. Now he did look at the clock: eyed it resentfully. But ah, he had things to do, places to go, people to berate: Wilson, for instance.

Carefully sitting up in bed, he angled himself onto the edge. He carefully took his time tightening, what was left of, all the appropriate muscles, and gave himself a good push off from the mattress. He tottered unsteadily on his feet for a moment before his leg gave out and he fell to the floor.

Damn it.

"Shit!" He looked around the room in search of a temporary third leg. He needed a cane, and some Vicodin. He definitely needed some Vicodin. Unfortunately, neither seemed to be in attendance.

He needed a cane. He absolutely refused to crawl to the door like a child. Cane, he needed a cane, something. Anything? But, Wilson was far too neat; he didn't leave anything lying about, and there wasn't anything even remotely cane-like within sight. Why the hell didn't he have a spare? He certainly seemed to go through them quickly enough. He used to have a pimp cane; whatever happened to that? It seemed to have disappeared around the same time he took his tuxedo in to be cleaned. Or rather, Wilson had taken it in to be dry-cleaned. Jimmy and Mr. Chin were obviously conspiring against him.

Damn Jimmy.

He got to his feet and braced himself as best he could against the night stand. He closed his eyes in a grimace and huffed out a sigh before pivoting himself back onto the bed where he started.

If he could just manage to stumble his way in between the furniture, he might make it to the door upright. He made it to the end of the bed, and from there to the dresser easily enough. He knocked over a bottle of Wilson's cologne as he leaned against it; he didn't bother picking it up. The door gave him a little trouble; he almost lost his balance reaching to open it, but managed to steady himself in the doorframe easily enough once it was opened. He rubbed at his thigh, eyeing the hallway in contempt.

It wasn't much of a hallway in any case, maybe six feet to the living room, but Wilson had insisted on moving the solitary bookcase that had, until recently, lined the wall because it made things look too cramped. Wasn't fung shui, apparently. House didn't need his apartment to be fung shui; he liked clutter. Clutter helped him think. Cramped spaces made him comfortable. Cluttered hallways gave him things to lean on.

Damn Wilson!

He made it two or three more steps out from the door, steadying himself with one hand against the wall, before he fell down again: a little more gently this time. There was no use fighting it anymore. No one was here to see him. He could swallow his pride and crawl the rest of the way. Cursing the whole way, he made it to the door and reclaimed his cane.

Once again armed, he rose triumphantly to his feet, at which point he realized that he hadn't actually gotten dressed yet. He was clad only in a pair of pale blue boxers, and not even his pale blue boxers at that! He shed the offending item of clothing. Let Wilson pick them up later; they were his anyway.

He stopped to take a piss and then loped back into the bedroom to get ready for work. He sat on the end of the bed to pull his jeans on. His leg still ached, as well as his head. Vicodin was definitely next on the agenda, and then a healthy morning dose of caffeine. Maybe he'd even get really crazy and eat something. There was even the slight possibility that Wilson had left him some breakfast, which might even be enough to redeem him if said breakfast included pancakes. House's mouth watered at the thought.

Feeling a little better, House limped to the kitchen to attend to the rest of his morning needs. A quick rifle through the drawer by the phone revealed three empty Vicodin bottles, but not a single dosage of the blessed drug. He tried to remember his last pill, and hazily remembered Wilson popping a couple into his mouth last night as he was falling asleep so that the pain wouldn't wake him in the night.

He hurried back to the bedroom, ignoring the pain in is leg, and then proceeded to ransack first Wilson's night stand and then his own. He unearthed a few more empty bottles, a glow-in-the-dark condom, and a handful of half-melted aspirin. He considered the aspirin, but, if he was going for non-narcotic over the counter drugs, he liked his chances in the medicine cabinet better. He pocketed the aspirin anyway, as well as the condom.

A few moments worth of destruction in the bathroom, where he threw the majority of the medicine cabinet's contents into the sink, and he managed to find a bottle of Ibuprophen. At least it was better than the aspirin in his pocket. He poured six of the rust-colored pills into his hand, considered, and added two more. He chewed on the pills stoically for a few seconds before his taste buds recovered from the initial shock. The urge to expel the burning disgusting substance from his mouth became overwhelming, and he spluttered what was left of the pills all over the contents of the sink.

A particularly large splatter of reddened discharge on Wilson's toothbrush made him feel just the slightest twinge of guilt, but it served Wilson right. And besides, who the hell kept their toothbrush in the medicine cabinet? There was a perfectly good cup on the ledge by the sink, where House kept his own toothbrush, with plenty of room for it.

Damn toothbrush.

House swallowed and ran his tongue along his teeth, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. He took the bottle with him to the kitchen, thinking better of running water all over the contents of the sink and making the mess any worse than it already was.

He filled a cupped palm with tap water and swallowed, rinsing the taste from his mouth. With another handful of water he swallowed a couple more pills to make up for the ones splattered all over the bathroom sink. He was more than willing to let his system digest them at a normal rate this time. House rubbed at his temple and then his thigh, groaned again, and then moved on to the next order of business.

He ventured hopefully over to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. He was greeted by a stark white glow of clean emptiness, rather than the sight of some neatly packaged breakfast from Wilson that he had hoped for. There was a single piece of paper tented on the middle shelf, but otherwise the fridge was bare of all but a few condiments. He picked the piece of paper up; it was cold to the touch. The unfolded note revealed a brief message in Wilson's neat oncologist's script.

_House,_

_It's your turn to pick up groceries. I'm not going to do it this time, regardless of how long you plan on leaving the fridge empty. If you want food, then you're just going to have to go get it yourself. I've made you a list. It's in your jacket._

_James_

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say Jimmy," House mumbled under his breath. He wadded the note into a ball and threw it in the general vicinity of the garbage can. He wondered how long the note had been there: before yesterday, at least. They both had a full case load and hadn't been eating at home lately, but the refrigerator looked freshly scrubbed and House couldn't imagine the last time Wilson would have had the time to do that.

They had been busy. House couldn't remember the last time he opened the refrigerator, so how was he supposed to know he needed to get groceries is Wilson didn't tell him. Still, he managed to feel guilty and annoyed at the same time. It wasn't that big of a deal; he could pick up some breakfast at work.

All he needed was a quick cup of coffee to get him moving. Once he had some caffeine running through his veins he could make it to work. And when he got there? Well, then he could get Vicodin and breakfast, and maybe a few other things on his list, from the Head of Oncology.

Grumbling, House tossed back the lid on the ceramic jar where they kept the coffee grounds. There was a nice whiff of coffee, and he dipped a spoon in to get some grounds for the filter in his other hand, but instead of grounds he got another note from Wilson.

_We need coffee too._

_J_

House crumpled the note and tossed it back into the coffee container. Fine then, he could get coffee at work with his breakfast.

Jimmy could have mentioned the fact that he needed to get groceries at least once, instead of letting him find out in this round about way. Of course, he said several times that it was House's turn to do the shopping, but he'd never been led to believe that this meant he was actually expected to go out and buy anything.

Damn Wilson.

House glanced at his watch; he'd better get going anyway, or he'd be late. He sat on the sofa to put on his shoes, and grabbed his jacket and helmet out of the closet. Still feeling a little pissed, he threw the door open and stepped out onto the street. He was greeted by the crack of thunder and a downpour of rain. He wasn't exactly surprised.

He pulled his cell out as he went back inside, and he hit the 1 button to speed-dial Wilson. Abstaining from calling Jimmy to come and get him his cane so he didn't have to crawl from the bed to the door was one thing. Not calling Wilson to pick him up now, when it was pouring out and Wilson had the car, was something else. He wasn't about to walk the few miles to work in the rain, and he certainly wasn't about to make the attempt without vast consumption of Vicodin. If he tried to ride the bike in today he'd likely end up splattered on the asphalt: just another scuff on the body of his repsol. It was bad enough that he was going to be riding with his leg acting up; with the roads rain-slicked to boot, he was just inviting disaster.

The phone rang one final time, and he was greeted by Wilson's voice telling him that he had reached Dr. James Wilson and if he would be so kind as to leave a message Jimmy would get back to him ASAP.

Well, that was just great.

House cancelled the call, and hit 2 for Wilson's office; the result was much the same.

"Well, fuck Jimmy, where are you when I need you?"

He dialed Cuddy, and grimaced when she picked up on the first ring.

"Cuddy," she answered briskly.

House managed a weak cough. "I don't think I can make it in today," he said in a harsh whisper.

"House, cut it out! You are not sick. You've already skipped out on clinic duty twice this week." She prattled on for a while longer about his duties to the hospital, with the occasional insult to his character.

House dropped the act. "You know, I'm a doctor too. Some people even think I'm a pretty good doctor. Why don't you trust my medical opinion?"

"House, you are not sick."

"I'm pretty sure it's Lupus, but I'm going to have to run some tests; it could take a while."

"If you're not standing in this clinic in twenty minutes, you're fired."

"You can't fire me; I have tenure. You know you can't fire me. I know you can't fire me. So, why bother with the threats?"

"Twenty minutes."

"But it's raining out, and Wilson took the car," he whined.

"Call a cab," Cuddy said, and hung up on him.

There was no way in hell he was going to call a cab. Cabs smelled bad, as did cab drivers for that matter. Paying cab fare made him feel like he'd been fucked over, and, well, for that sort of thing you had to buy him dinner first.

So, that eighty-sixed that idea. He tried Wilson's cell again, not expecting any better results and not getting any. House didn't bother leaving a message.

Maybe he should call one of his fellows to come pick him up. Cameron would do it, but he still didn't know what was going on with Wilson and he didn't want Cameron to find cause to involve herself. Chase would probably just pick him up with no questions asked, but then he'd expect a favor in return. House had the feeling that Foreman would just decline outright.

Damn.

House left his helmet lying on the sofa and went to the closet for a different jacket. He wasn't about to ruin his leather jacket by wearing it while walking to work during a monsoon, nor was he inclined to jeopardize his new totally bitchrod status by wearing a poncho over his digs.

He selected one of Wilson's old coats from the closet and pulled it on over his blazer. He still put this whole situation down to Wilson's damned libido and lack of consideration. So, if Jimmy couldn't be bothered to ensure that he had cane, drugs, and transportation, then Jimmy would just have to deal with any shit that House felt like sending his way. If the least of it was a wet coat and a messy apartment, then he was getting off easy.

House shouldered his backpack, and headed out the door.

-------------------

Twenty minutes later, he was soaked through to his skin and if he didn't sit down very soon his leg was going to give out and he would end up sprawled in the gutter. There was a convenience store half a block down, where he'd be able to get in out of the rain at least. He was still a mile from the hospital, and he was beginning to regret his decision not to call a cab.

House made it in out of the rain just in time; he could feel his strained leg on the verge of a spasm as he sat down quickly on the first available surface: a knee high counter covered with stacks of newspapers. The spotted teenager behind the cash register glared at him: some scruffy cripple dripping all over the newspapers.

House could care less what some pubescent gas-pumper thought of him. He dug the half-melted aspirin, by this point bordering on fully melted, out of his pocket and made short work of crunching them into mush in his mouth. This time he didn't even note the taste, just chewed eagerly. The kid behind the counter was now staring at him openly.

"Never seen a wet cripple before?" The kid just stared blankly. "It's only aspirin. You wouldn't happen to have something better," he broke off, diagnosing the kid's personality and character. No, probably not.

The kid looked away from him, coughing loudly. House took in the mucus dripping from the kid's nose. It probably wasn't anything interesting, and he quickly lost interest, turning his attention to removing the aspirin that was stuck between his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

He sat there for twenty minutes, massaging his leg, and watching the customers come and go. He lost interest in a fat woman rifling through the milk cooler and flipped open his cell to try Jimmy again. He only succeeded at invoking Wilson's voicemail for the third time. This time House took a second to leave a message.

"If you're not too busy telling people that they're going to die you could try calling me back you bastard. Also, if you want a repeat of last night you'd better come up with a pretty damn good way to make all this up to me. I have a few suggestions, but if you want to hear them you'll have to call me back James." The use of Wilson's christian (er, Jewish?) name was a finely calculated ploy to get a quick response, but House decided to add a quick, "Love you," for good measure.

He folded his phone closed with a feeling that might have been satisfaction if his damned leg didn't hurt so much. He loved manipulating Wilson to his will.

When he looked up, House saw that the milk woman was staring at him and giving him a disapproving look. He took in the crucifix around her neck and her general nosing holier-than-thou-art manner.

House matched her gaze. "Yeah, I wouldn't worry about it either. I'm sure they were only kidding about that whole love thy neighbor bit: just put it in for shits and giggles. The meek are probably getting screwed out of their inheritance too, but I'm sure they won't mind. What you really need to pay attention to is those chapters in Leviticus where it tells you not to eat shellfish, and the proper way to go about getting mold out of your house. Not to mention, how sodomy is a sin and all the homosexuals are going to burn in hell. But yeah, I'd definitely worry about the mold if I were you."

The woman blanched, and scooped up her milk to go. She avoided eye contact with House as she scurried past him out the door.

The kid turned to him then, trying to look firm and apologetic at the same time and consequently failing at both. "Sir, you're bothering the other customers. If you're not going to buy something, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

House grabbed one of the soggy newspapers from the pile behind him and threw it at the kid. "And I'll take one of those cans of monster," he said, pointing to a neat pyramid of energy drinks on the counter.

House ran his knuckles over his thigh one final time for good measure, and reached for his wallet. But, where he should have found a slightly bulging square of cow hide, he only encountered wet denim and ass.

"It's gonna be $2.57," the kid said, setting the paper and energy drink down on the counter next to House, and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I left my wallet… somewhere," at home probably. He couldn't remember the last time he had to pay for anything; Wilson usually covered daily costs, and he just paid the bills.

The kid let out a sigh and took the Monster back, returning the newspaper to its pile. He didn't really seem too surprised by House's present lack of cash flow.

House looked longingly at the can of Monster. What he wouldn't give to have a little caffeine running through his veins. "Wait, maybe I have some change." He dug through all of the pockets of Wilson's coat in succession, but came up empty handed.

Damn penny pinching Jew.

"Look, sir, you're really going to have to leave." The kid went back to the cash register and began to remove House's transaction: clearly annoyed.

"I'm a doctor; I have my own office and everything. I have all kinds of money. Can't I just write you an IOU or something?"

The kid just raised an eyebrow at him.

What was it with the youth today? They're all so damn skeptical.

"I work at Princeton-Plainsboro down the street. Just give me the Monster now, and in twenty minutes I'll have a skinny brunette here with ten dollars. If you think up a good sob story you might even get a little action; she's a sucker for angsty lost causes. Anyway, that's an 80 profit margin. Do you even make eight dollars an hour?"

But the kid wasn't buying it. "If you were a doctor, you would have a car."

"I drive a motorcycle. It's a neon orange Honda Repsol. Maybe you've seen it; I drive by here everyday. But, as you can see, it's raining out, so I couldn't drive it to work today. The guy I live with took the car, and I can't get him on the phone to come pick me up. His name is Dr. James Wilson, by the way, and he practices medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as well. He's the Head of Oncology though, so he has it easy. If your patients are already dying when you get them, they don't mind so much if one decides to kick the bucket. But, if someone decides to get better, then it's a miracle. Cancer's easy. I'm the Head of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine, on the other hand. They get mad when my patients die. I have a double specialty in infectious diseases and nephrology. I know lots of really big names for lots of really little parasites. Did I mention the big shiny office?"

But the kid still wasn't buying any of it. If anything, he looked even more skeptical and annoyed. "You can't drive a motorcycle; you have a cane. If you don't leave I'm going to call the cops."

House ground his teeth into his lower lip, nodding. Oh yeah, the way today was going it was going to take a lot more than some pocky kid with mono calling the cops to get the jump on him. He was probably bluffing anyway, but with the way things were going House wasn't taking any chances. What good was a medical degree if he couldn't even convince a hormonal teenager to loan him two dollars at a 400 interest rate over the next twenty minutes, even with the added bonus of Cameron delivering the payoff? But, maybe it was just a question of logistics. It seemed unlikely, given the boy's reaction when House told the church woman off, but it was worth a shot.

"Alright, I can get you a built Australian with great hair and twenty bucks. But, I'll need half an hour. And you'll have to think of something better than that woe-is-me this-is-my-life bullshit you were going to pull with the girl, because he won't buy it. That's my final offer."

The kid definitely wasn't going for it.

"Like them chocolate?"

"Sir…"

"Ok, fine. A Jew, forty-five minutes, and you'll be lucky to get the two dollars, but it's totally worth it: great blowjobs."

The kid made a point of picking up the phone.

"Fine! Fine!" House got to his feet with only minimal difficulty, leaving behind a puddle on the counter. That kid was just lucky that he hadn't offered up Cuddy on a silver platter.

He had to lean heavily on his cane when he tried to put a little tentative weight on his leg. It was only a few blocks now, and he was just way too damned stubborn to call a cab after he'd made it this far; although, Chase was starting to sound pretty good.

House stopped a step from the door and turned back to the kid. "They give you health insurance in this place?"

The kid snorted. "I wish."

House nodded, smiling for the first time all day, though with anticipated vengeance on his mind rather than any feelings of joy or contentment.

"See you next week," he muttered. Maybe the clinic did have its high points. Just make sure the kid's dad isn't a cop.

-------------------

House walked the last couple blocks and made it into the hospital less than ten minutes later: his leg screaming in agony, his mind muttering thoughts of revenge.

He practically hobbled into the clinic, and collapsed into the first available chair. The chair next to him was occupied by a smelly, dripping, morbidly obese, black man. He wasn't sure if the moisture dripping from the man's face and big hammy forearms was sweat or if he had simply just come in out of the rain. A man was dripping, and he couldn't even decide if it was being caused by some kind of potentially interesting disease or merely a symptom of the weather. He definitely needed Vicodin, now. He gave the fat man a half-hearted scowl, and then turned it on the nurse at the front desk.

"Page Dr. Wilson, now!"

The nurse appeared a little alarmed. "Sir, you'll have to wait until," but House cut her off.

"My name is Dr. Gregory House. I am the Head of Diagnostic Medicine at this hospital, and you need to page Dr. James Wilson, right Now!"

Now the nurse was definitely alarmed, as were most of the patients for that matter, but fortunately Cuddy came around the corner in a flash of administrative glory to save the day.

Cuddy leaned over the desk and spoke to the nurse in a low whisper. "Would you please page Dr. Wilson."

Then she walked over to House and spoke in an even lower whisper. "You're late. What happened?"

House thought that whispering was silly. "I GOT MUGGED BY A CAB DRIVER!"

Cuddy sighed, but was never actually surprised by House's behavior. She looked him up and down. "Did you walk here?"

"I told you; Jimmy took the car."

"House, you are such an idiot. You're just lucky that you didn't collapse and get hit by a car."

House shrugged it off. "Why doesn't that idiot nurse know who I am?" he asked, plenty loud enough for the nurse to hear him.

"Well, maybe if you showed up for clinic duty every once in a while, the staff would know who you are. She's not likely to forget now, anyway."

House grimaced as he experimentally shifted his weight onto his left side.

Cuddy looked out into the hall. Where was Wilson? She rested a hand on House's shoulder. "Wait here.'

"Oh good, I was getting tired of running amok through the hospital."

Cuddy ignored him and went back to the front desk.

"Did you get Dr. Wilson?" she asked the rather flushed nurse.

"His beeper's not responding."

Cuddy frowned. "Try calling his office." Cuddy stood there waiting while the nurse dialed his extension, but there was no answer. Cuddy turned back to House only to see, much to her horror, that the very cranky man in question was attempting to get to his feet.

"I thought I told you to wait," she said, hurrying over to help steady him on his feet. "What happened to being tired of running amok in my hospital?"

"I lied. I guess I have a little more amoking to run. Besides, I have a bone to pick with someone."

"Let me go with you then."

"No, I've got it."

Fine, if House was going to be stubborn he could make his way up to Wilson's office on his own. He had gotten this far, might as well let him finish.

-------------------

House leaned against the wall, waiting for a swarm of busy moron interns to get out of his way.

He managed to ease himself into an uncomfortable position in the corner that actually managed to not hurt his leg too terribly much. He punched his floor number with the rubber tip of his cane, and gripped the rails as the elevator brought him up.

When the elevator doors opened onto his floor, Cameron was waiting on the other side.

"Cuddy called me," she explained, hurrying forward to offer him a hand.

House brushed past her. "If I wanted a cane with the power to annoy me I would have picked Chase; he has better hair. I need you to take our patient in for a CT."

"You haven't accepted any new patients. Mrs. Johnston was released this morning."

House continued hobbling down the hall: unfazed. "Well go down to the waiting room and grab a couple. They're down there, just _waiting._ Go grab a new one and scan its brain."

"House," Cameron started, but he was still hopping grumpily down the hall, and Cameron didn't really know what to say to calm him down anyway. If his leg really hurt that much he would have stayed at home. She followed him down the hall at a walk, leaving him plenty of room to walk ahead of her.

She was going to follow him into his office, but when he just kept going and went for Wilson's office instead, Cameron decided that she might have a pretty good idea of what was going on.

"House."

He turned to her, hand on the door handle. "It's none of your business, Cameron. I think you'd better stay on the bench for this one."

Cameron snorted. Fine, if it was none of her business, then Wilson could fix it. She huffed off to her own office, muttering about sports metaphors.

-------------------

Wilson was only momentarily startled as someone entered his office, slamming the door behind them, and that was mostly because of his general nervousness over the large pile of freshly rolled joints lying on his desk. It was obviously House, but the tone of the door slam worried him. It wasn't House's usual slam. Something was wrong. The door had actually been slammed shut, rather than being closed with calculated force for effect.

Wilson reprimanded himself inwardly, for obsessing about _how_ House slammed his door instead of _that_ House slammed his door.

Wilson watched, as his hand scribbled down the last couple of words on the file he was working on, then shifted his gaze up to House.

He was actually a little surprised by House's appearance. He had seen House in varying stages of unkempt misuse before, with results ranging from dead sexy to worrying or repulsive (the latter depending on whether you knew the man or not, and whether or not you liked him if you did), but Wilson had never seen him looking quite like this.

"House you look awful. What happened?"

"Where were you this morning?" House asked, making little effort to conceal his venomous tone.

"I got called in. One of my patients had a turn for the worse. She's stabilized now," Wilson explained, rising from his chair.

House staggered forward a few steps to loom more menacingly over the shorter man.

"I left you a note."

"You left me lots of notes."

"I stuck it in your jacket pocket, next to your wallet."

House growled.

"Is this about the coffee? I told you to get more last week." He looked House up and down. "Why are you wearing my coat? Why are you all wet?"

"It's raining. Why aren't you answering your phone? Why did you take my pills?"

"My phone," Wilson reached for his phone, but it was in his lab coat. "I think I left it in the O.R. I put your Vicodin in your pocket with the note. It's raining? How did you get here?"

"I walked."

"You, what?"

"I walked." House repeated. He took one of the joints off Wilson's desk. "You're in trouble."

"I.." but Wilson wasn't quite sure what to say.

House stuck the joint between his lips. "Match?"

Wilson sat back down, still speechless.

"Match, Jimmy?"

Wilson dug into the bottom drawer of his desk until he found an old book of matches that looked like they'd been through the wash. He handed them to House, without really thinking about it.

"Good, now run down to the pharmacy and get me a fresh bottle of Vicodin."

Wilson got up to do what he was told. Halfway to the door a waft of smoke caught his attention, and he turned back to House. "At least go smoke that out on the balcony, and for god's sake make sure no one sees you." He took another step towards the door, and then paused again. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, believe me, you'll be making up for it."

House watched him go, and then went out on the balcony. He took a satisfied drag off his joint. The rain pelted down onto his already soaked frame, but he was almost enjoying it now. Wilson would be in his pocket for weeks after this.

-------------------

Hit the button; tell me you love me.


	6. Blue Morning, Blue Day

Author's Note: Another breakfast drabble. Fluffy nonsense…

Disclaimer: Blue Morning, Blue Day is a song by Foreigner. It's my favorite song actually; I'm not sure I want to admit to that…

-------------------

Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Six

Blue Morning, Blue Day

-------------------

Wilson sat down at the table and poured himself a glass of orange juice. House looked up at him over his newspaper and grunted.

"What?"

House grunted again.

"I know it's early, but if you want me to understand you you're going to have to use some form of verbal communication."

House mustered up the energy to roll his eyes. "Grunting _is _a form of verbal communication."

"No it isn't. Vocal maybe, but not verbal."

"It's the same thing."

"Whatever. You're talking now anyway, so what do you want?"

"Apenas deixe-o saber, you're um idiot. Se grunhindo uma comunicação verbal de isn't, então I don't sabe o que você fazia a todo esse ruído para a última noite."

"Now you're just being obstinate."

"Enkel omdat u één taal kunt slechts spreken… maakt tot u een idiot ."

"I am not an idiot! Could you just speak in English please?"

"Je t'aime."

Wilson smiled and looked down at the table. "I love you too."


	7. Liar

Author's Note: I've had this written up in bits and pieces for a while now, so I figured I'd glue it all together to get geared up for the post-super bowl Housey goodness.

Disclaimer: The installment title is from Built to Spill's album You in Reverse. One of my friends loaded it into my mp3 player on impulse a while back, and now it's one of my favorite songs.

-------------------

Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Seven

Liar

-------------------

"Thirty-nine year old woman referred from St. Francis. She just turned purple." Cuddy tried to hand him a file, but House deflected it with his cane and hit the button on the elevator.

"Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus," he said as the elevator doors opened.

Cuddy followed him into the elevator. "I tell you I have a purple patient, and you don't even want to look?"

"As interesting as the grimace sounds, I have bigger fish to fry. If she just transferred over from Trenton, I'm going to go ahead and say that she picked it up there, but you should isolate her and start sanitizing everything; you'll want to inform St. Francis."

"How can you not want to see the _purple _patient?"

"I told you; I'm busy. Have Foreman confirm and start her on vancomycin and teicoplanin."

Cuddy suddenly realized that they were heading for the doors. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Four hundred dollar butt plug," he tried.

"House!" She followed him out into the parking lot.

"That really does seem as though it should work better. In any case, we're talking top priority super secret stuff here, so I can't tell you… because it's super secret."

"And it's more important than my patient?"

"Your purple patient with MRSA? Yes."

"But you're not going to tell me?"

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. It's super secret, remember?" He clipped his cane into its holder and straddled his bike.

"I remember," Cuddy sighed. "Fine go, but be back in two hours. You have clinic duty!"

"Yes mom!" he yelled at her as he gunned the engine and drove away.

Cuddy shook her head and started back into the hospital. "I hope he really is spending four hundred dollars on a butt plug," she muttered.

-------------------

Two hours later, Foreman had confirmed MRSA, the patient had been isolated, and St. Francis had been informed of the possible health risk, but House still wasn't anywhere to be found. There was only one thing for it; she'd have to go to Wilson.

"Do you know what House is up to?"

Wilson looked up from his paperwork to see Cuddy glaring accusatorily down at him. "What? You mean more than the general stuff, I take it."

"He disappeared two hours ago after refusing to see my MRSA patient."

"MRSA sound like a diagnosis; what did you need House for?"

"I didn't know she had MRSA. She was just purple at the time."

Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Since when is being purple not a good enough reason to see a patient? I can't have my doctors disappearing when I need consults."

"If House already gave you a diagnosis, then you don't need a consult."

"But the diagnosis could have been wrong."

Wilson raised that eyebrow again. "Did you try paging him?"

"Twice."

Wilson shrugged. "Well I don't know where he is. He didn't mention where he was going at all?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "He said he was going to buy a four hundred dollar butt plug."

Wilson flushed visibly, but Cuddy ignored it. "Could you just call him for me. He'll answer for you."

"Yeah, all right, fine. I just have to do a quick exam first." Wilson was still a little flushed, and avoiding her gaze.

The moment Cuddy left his office, Wilson hit the speed dial for House's cell.

-------------------

House felt his phone vibrating against his leg. He stopped to dig it out, expecting Cuddy, and was pleased to see Wilson's name displayed on the screen. He took a second to check his watch. Two hours, Cuddy didn't waste any time. He flipped the phone open, but didn't say anything.

"Four hundred dollars? What is it gold plated?"

"What has Cuddy told you?"

"What? Nothing. Why? Where are you?"

"I'm sorry, but all that's top secret."

"What? Are you working for the C.I.A. again?"

"No."

"Then where are you?"

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to prove to me that you are in fact Dr. James E. Wilson before I can divulge that information. Did you know that your initials spell Jew?"

"What? Yes. House, it's me."

"Isn't that exactly what the imposter JEW would say?"

"It's exactly what the real one would say, since it's what I'm saying right now. And, since when do I have an imposter?"

"There's no way to know that you haven't been compromised. You have to prove that you are who you say you are."

"What's going on House."

"Prove it."

Wilson sighed, "Fine, what do you want to know?"

House was perusing his way through the porn rack at the back of a convenience store just outside Princeton. He paused for a moment to let the silence fall more ominously, and to scan a particularly interesting article at the back of one of the more risqué skin mags. When he felt that Wilson had stewed quite long enough, he dredged their past for some suitably embarrassing event for the man to recount.

"Tell me how we met," he said finally.

House could tell that Wilson was frowning on the other end of the line.

"We work at the same hospital; our offices are right next to each other. You need oncology consults all the time."

"That might be why we met, but that definitely isn't how. I don't know how I'm supposed to believe that you're the real Wilson when you can't even remember the simple chain of events that led to our auspicious introduction."

Wilson sighed, and House grinned. He turned the corner, and began scanning a shelf full of candy.

"Where would you like me to begin?" Wilson asked after a moment.

"At the beginning."

"Theological or astrophysical?"

"At the hospital."

"Oh, I see." Wilson cleared his throat and made a failed attempt at a James Earl Jones impression. "In the beginning Cuddy said unto Jimmy the wonder-boy oncologist, 'come, be my head of oncology,' and Jimmy said, 'Do I get my own office.' And, Cuddy said, 'yes,' and it was good."

House had to fight back a chuckle. "Was this before she killed all the first born sons of Egypt and made Moses lead a bunch of angry Jews around the desert for two hundred years?"

"Yes, this was pre-plagues Cuddy."

"Of course, go on. By the way, Your James Earl Jones sounds exactly like your Sean Connery."

"James Earl Jones? That was supposed to be James Mason."

House couldn't hold back the laughter that time. "Well in that case, maybe we should dispense with the old testament all together."

"Fine, where was I?"

"Somewhere after the creation of the universe by a beaurocratic god with a pair of c-cups."

"Right," Wilson paused. "So at some point between meeting God and the Devil…"

"I'm the Devil in this analogy?"

"Of course. Right, so at some point between being hired and being corrupted I found myself at a benefit dinner."

"Purgatory."

"My wife was busy chatting with a woman that she'd known in grad school, and I was getting tired of doing the meet and greet with Cuddy's endless barrage of foundation members and hospital donors, so I decided to go up to my office and finish going over my patient files."

"Just for clarity, which ex-Mrs. Wilson would this have been?"

"The first one. And, you know what? I was happily married before I met you. That's the reason why all my wives leave me; they just can't stand you."

"You're right. It couldn't possibly be your need for neediness or the adultery; it has to be the work of the Devil."

"Give the Devil his due."

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell."

"Milton?"

"Wilde."

"It would be. Have I convinced you of my identity yet?"

"Not quite. Please continue."

Wilson sighed, and drummed his fingers on the top of his desk. "So I went up to my office, but the door was locked and I'd left my keys at home. I tried to find a custodian, but there weren't any on the floor. I remembered that the balcony of my office was connected to yours, so I thought that I might be able to get in that way. I tried your door and it was unlocked, so I went in. It was dark, so I didn't know that there was anyone there."

"Why didn't you turn on the light?"

Wilson balked before answering. "I didn't want to attract any attention. The last thing I wanted was to get caught sneaking around your office. I'd only just started a couple of days before, and we hadn't met yet, so…" he trailed off.

"So what?"

"So I didn't want you to catch me sneaking around in your office. I'd already heard enough stories about how insane you are."

"You thought I would hurt you?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. But I didn't want to be on the crazy guy next door's bad side. You were annoying enough as it was."

"Me, annoying? Never."

"My very first day, while I was unpacking, you had a rock concert in your office with a custodian and that weird guy from pedes."

House smirked. "You just don't have any appreciation for music."

"It wouldn't have been so bad if that guy from pedes wasn't completely tone deaf."

"Well you try to find someone who looks like Johnny Ramone at _that_ hospital; it's impossible."

Wilson groaned. "Fine, so I creeping through your office in the dark when I noticed that you were sleeping on the couch. I was already to the balcony door, so I figured I might as well just continue the way I was going. I made it out onto your balcony and across onto mine, in the dark without killing myself, by some miracle. But, when I tried the door it was locked. I had no choice but to return through your office, but when I climbed back over the barrier I realized that I'd been locked out. It took me a moment before I noticed you standing on the other side of the glass, but when I did it startled me and I jumped back; I tripped over a pot of dead flowers and fell on my ass."

"That was pretty funny."

"I sprained my wrist! I scuffed my palms trying to catch myself. I was bleeding everywhere, and you wouldn't let me in."

"You could have been a burglar. I had to protect the hospital."

"It took me ten minutes to convince you to let me in."

"Oh, don't be such a baby. I bandaged you up, and I helped you break into your office; you can't hold a grudge."

"You had a key!"

"Well, if you would have just asked instead of lurking around in the dark like a bandit."

House was at the register now. He put his hand over his mouthpiece and indicated to the attendant which pump he had gas on. As an afterthought he grabbed a ring pop out of the bin on the counter and added it to his small stack of purchases. The attendant gave him a look, but Dr. House had had more than enough of cheeky gas station attendants for one week. He threw eighty bucks down on the counter, and left without saying anything.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Am I the real JEW."

House stuffed his purchases into his backpack and pulled out a road map.

"Yeah, you're the real JEW."

"So?"

He scanned a fingertip along interstate 176.

"So what?"

"So where are you?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that; it's a secret."

"What? You said you'd tell me once I proved I was the real Wilson."

"I lied."

"So what am I going to tell Cuddy?"

"Make something up."

"Just tell me where you are."

"Nope. It's a surprise."

"It's not the butt plug is it?"

"You wish."

"So when are you going to be back?"

"Tonight."

"Okay, see you then."

"Oh, and Wilson…"

"Yeah?"

"I never thought you were a burglar."


	8. Cry for Love

Author's Note: I got a little sappy on this one, in honor of the season.

Disclaimer: Chapter title comes courtesy of Iggy Pop.

-------------------

Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Eight

Cry For Love

-------------------

"If that's a gold-plated butt plug, I'm not opening it." Wilson said, pointedly gesturing to the gift wrapped package, with his name on it that was sitting on the coffee table.

"Liar."

"What?" Wilson sat down next to him on the sofa, and pulled the package into his lap.

"I drove all the way to Trenton to buy you a present, and there's nothing I could say or do that would prevent you from opening that package, now that I've peaked your interest."

"I'm not like you House; I can control my curiosity." Wilson met his eyes questioningly. "It isn't really a gold-plated butt plug is it?"

"One of those two descriptions might be valid, but you'll have to open it to find out which one."

"If you spent four-hundred dollars on a butt plug…"

"If I was going to buy a four-hundred dollar butt plug, there's a whole lot of more interesting things they could do to it than gold-plating."

Wilson gave House a sidelong glance before apprehensively peeling back the paper. Inside the parcel was a smaller, singularly more ominous, box of black velvet: the kind that had a hinge on the back so you could pop it open on bended knee.

"House, I…"

"Oh, for god's sake Jimmy, just open it."

Wilson gave House another questioning look, but popped the little box open just the same. A thin band of gold shone between the two lips of black velvet. His fingers trembled a little as he drew the ring from its enclosure. The metal was warm to the touch, almost hot, like it had spent the trip from Trenton in the pocket of House's jeans, nestled safely against his thigh, and only recently been hidden away in its decadent little box.

Wilson looked up at House uncertainly. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

House snorted. "I have no intention of becoming the fourth ex-Mrs. Wilson."

Wilson flushed at this response. "Then, why?"

House took the ring from Wilson and held it up between them. "The circle is a symbol of unity." He slipped the ring onto Wilson's finger. "And besides, I was getting tired of all the nurses flirting with you." He kissed the stubble at the angle of Wilson's jaw. "You're mine."

Wilson smiled and twisted the ring on his finger. "Well, if you're just trying to assert ownership, collars are circular too; you could put a bell on it then, so you'd always know where I am."

House grinned, licentious thoughts obviously worming their way around his overdeveloped cranium.

"I can't wear this to work anyway. What would I tell people?"

"Well, you can tell Cuddy that it's a gold-plated butt plug. As far as everyone else goes, you can tell them what you want; I don't care. If you think that people won't respect you if they know that you're sleeping with another man, then tell them to mind their own business. If you want to tell them the truth, go ahead. You know I don't care what people think about me."

"Oh, people will still respect me if they find out I'm sleeping with another man, unless they find out that other man is you."

There was a moment's pause. Wilson continued to spin the ring on his finger. "Are you going to wear one?"

"No."

"So it's perfectly alright if the nurses flirt with you?"

"I'm not the one with a history of infidelity."

Wilson sighed and leaned into House's shoulder. "I'm not going to cheat on you House."

House wrapped an arm around him. "There wouldn't be any point. I always know when you're cheating before you do."

Wilson smiled. "Why won't you wear a ring?"

"Because it doesn't mean anything to me; it's just an outdated ritual."

"Then why do you want me to wear one?"

"Because it does mean something to you."

Wilson looked away suddenly, and House reached over to tilt his face up.

"You're crying." House brushed a thumb across Wilson's cheek to feel the tears for himself.

Wilson averted his gaze, and House placed another kiss on his jaw before letting his hand drop.

"You're just sad because you didn't get the butt plug."


	9. Under My Thumb

Author's Note: Tipping my hat to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He was an ophthalmologist you know; no wonder he took up writing.

Disclaimer: Chapter title is from the Rolling Stones.

-------------------

Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Nine

Under My Thumb

-------------------

"Good morning."

House cracked one eye open at the overly energetic man sitting across from him, and let out an indignant groan.

"Oh, don't give me that!" Wilson handed him a cup of coffee. "You're just getting old; that's your problem.

"What would you recommend?" House inhaled deeply and took a sip of coffee. "I could always retire to the country and keep bees."

Wilson chuckled. "That's taking it a bit far, but I hope it wouldn't take a fall from Reichenbach to convince you to take a little time off."

House arched an eyebrow. Wilson was scheming again.

"You've been working hard for the last few weeks." Wilson paused to reevaluate that last sentence. "You've been working the last few weeks." Wilson paused again. "Point is, you could use some rest and relaxation."

"This is about that week of vacation you have coming up."

"I thought we could go somewhere warm, lay on the beach, drink mojitos…"

"Cuddy's never going to let both of us take vacation the same week."

"I already took care of it."

"And you couldn't just surprise me with tickets to the Bahamas, you had to start in with the 'you're getting old' shit because…?"

"You're grumpy in the morning, and it's more fun this way. Besides, I wanted revenge for that business with the butt plug."

"Revenge? If this is a revenge vacation, I'm not sure I want to go."

"Well you're going. It's my vacation, and I want to get out of this apartment and have some fun."

House closed his eye again and growled.

-------------------

_A week later in a hotel room in Havana…_

House fell back against the pillows, sticky, sweating, and utterly spent.

"You call that rest and relaxation!" he said between heavy breaths.

Wilson smirked, still on top of him. "I call that, me enjoying my vacation. Ready for another round, old man?"

"I knew it! This is a revenge vacation. You're trying to kill me."

Wilson laughed, and bent down to kiss him, readjusting himself to more comfortably straddle House's hips.

House moaned. "Seriously Jimmy, you have to let me out of this bed sometime."

Wilson glanced to the elegant tapered wrist that was cuffed to the headboard. _The circle is a symbol of unity._ "No. Really I don't."

-------------------

Hey kids!

Getting a little lax with the reviews lately, aren't you?

Feedback is always much appreciated.

So, hit the button; tell me you love me.


	10. Maimed Happiness

Author's Note: I'm not going to address the whole Wilson/Amber thing until I see how it all plays out, which, I'm guessing, is going to be some week next time. This just popped into my head yesterday so, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D. The chapter title is a song by The New York Dolls

--

Sympathy for the Devil

Installment Ten

Maimed Happiness

--

"Stop moving so much."

Wilson craned his neck over his shoulder to try to see what was taking House so long.

House put a firm hand on the back of his friend's head and pushed his face away. "Sit still and be a good boy, and I'll give you a lollipop when it's over."

"What are you going to do if I'm not a good boy?" Wilson asked, wiggling his butt.

"I have a thermometer and a medical degree that says I can stick it wherever I want."

"I don't remember that working out so well for you last time."

"Just stay still for a second," House grumbled.

"Well, what's taking so long?"

"Just admiring the view."

Wilson let out a long suffering sigh. He was bent over one of the exam room tables in the clinic, and House had a sharp needle poised somewhere in the vicinity of his ass. This was not a good place to be.

"Just hurry up, would you? I should have asked Cameron to do this."

"Oh no, this booty is for mine eyes only." House accentuated this remark by injecting the syringe into Wilson's taught muscle.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, don't be such a girl." House disposed of the syringe and his latex gloves while Wilson pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. "Why did you ask me anyway?"

"What can I say, when I need a prick in the rear, you're my guy."

House smiled with barely contained laughter and put his arms around his lover to keep him from leaving. When Wilson turned around to make a quip, House popped a sucker in his mouth.

"Does this mean that I was a good boy?"

"No, but it's more fun to punish you at home." House gave him a playful swat on the bum as he left, careful to avoid the injection site. "Go play nice with the cancer kids." House waited until he was halfway down the hall, before adding, "Play nice, don't hog the legos, and Daddy will come pick you up after work!"

As Wilson rounded the nurse's station, Cuddy gave him a questioning look, and he had to turn away to hide his secret smile.

--

A.N: Right, so I have another one of these ready for tomorrow. I always appreciate feedback, and I usually make good on prompts. So, hit the button and tell me you love me.


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